


sport of kings

by mariie



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Tennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariie/pseuds/mariie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the french did get one thing right. tennis oneshot starring austria and hungary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sport of kings

The countryside is beautiful and peaceful, the kind of pastoral setting that, yes, Austria, in the past, may have actively tried to get away from. But it’s different now! He’s an empire, and his glasses make his face so much more interesting, and he has a beautiful wife who is a great help in battle and politics. He thinks of all the blessings god has given him as he looks out at the forest surrounding their just-finished picnic. Hungary stands and looks at the sky, her hand above her perfectly formed brow. She swings her racquet in her hand.  
“Let’s begin,” she says. “I’ll teach you to serve.” So she goes first, and throws the ball up into the air, and whacks it with the racquet and it hits the ground somewhere in the trees. She scampers off to go find it. Austria thinks it looks simple enough.  
When she comes back, she holds the ball like a trophy, beaming. “Your turn,” she smiles charmingly.  
He twists his body to an angle and grips the wooden handle of the racquet in his hand. He sweats under the summer sun, the swish of the trees in the clean air echoing as loudly as Hungary’s voice. He counts to himself as he serves the ball: one-two-three, one-two-three, and the swing moves in time with his heartbeat, and the pale white ball sails through the air, under the lemon-blue sky, and he stands in position, waiting for the return.  
The ball hits the ground with a painful-sounding smack.  
Hungary shakes her head, laughter like little bells, and walks up to the net. “Austria, love,” she says, “You need to learn much more before you’re ready to play anyone besides me! Once more. Practice your serve?”  
He knows this, clinically, but he is loathe to admit that he can be beaten at anything—especially by his lovely wife—because in reality all it is to be beaten by her is a reminder of a long ago time when she was always better than him at everything, and everyone else was always better than him at everything too. He was never devout enough, or strong enough, or mean enough. He was always doubtful and scrawny and fussy, but never enough.  
And logically, right, he should be quite good at this game. It involves a great deal more skill and tact than most sports, and as for the sense of timing—as a musician, he should have it perfectly. Naturally, though, he doesn’t. Tennis, he reminds himself, is really not a very difficult sport.  
So, emboldened by the realization that he must be simply having an off day, he tries again. He throws the ball into the air, and oh, it’s an absolutely perfect throw, and he hums a waltz to himself to keep the rhythm and time and he lifts the racquet and it twangs against the heavy ball—perfectly centered—and it flies over the net beautifully.  
Hungary crows wildly, happy that he’s finally got it, and she hits it back towards him, and the ball is coming towards him, so he readies his racquet for the return (it’s so nice to be able to relax on a summer day with one’s wife with a nice game, away from the pressure of the royal court and the heavy city surrounding you!) and then, the innocuously small white ball hits him, without him even noticing, right in the middle of his forehead.  
He wakes up to a view of Hungary’s worried face. “Oh, Austria,” she says, “You’re awake!” Everything looks very slightly grayish for a few moments before it comes back to him, and then the vivid midsummer feverish colors come back in full force. He blinks. “Where are my glasses?  
She smiles sheepishly, and holds up his poor, expensive, broken, expensive glasses (oh, god, those cost him a fortune). “Sorry. I accidentally stepped on them when they fell off your face.”  
He sighs. He’ll get a new pair, right? He just hopes that no one he knows sees him without them, looking foolish and disheveled like a small child.  
“But,” she continues, seriously, “Your serve is getting much, much better. Let’s try playing again!”

**Author's Note:**

> oh austria buddy i suck at tennis too i feel your pain... so tennis is actually really old! they used to use white balls that were really heavy instead of the hollow day-glo ones we know and love and the strings were made of animal guts ew (plus the surface area was smaller, so it was harder ooh)  
> tennis was popularized (and maaaybe invented) by the french nobility, because it was cute and took skill and had lots of fancy equipment  
> but long story short i don't know if they played tennis in the austro-hungarian empire... but it's really cute to picture austria counting out a waltz while trying to serve so i just ran with it whatever sue me  
> p.s. let's say austria's seeing the world through rose colored glasses--it's easy to do in the summertime.


End file.
